


Darling, Sugar, Lover

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Banter, Crowley is a Tease (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, No Angst, Rating for Language, Romance, Teasing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, crowley's brain is a 404 error message for like a third of this, the author really likes Much Ado can you tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley’s begun using terms of endearment to tease his angel. It’s all fun and games until he uses one by accident.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 63
Kudos: 367
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Darling, Sugar, Lover

**Author's Note:**

> This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous, you are ridiculous, and above all, Crowley is ridiculous. Enjoy some sugar, don’t let it rot your teeth and be sure to floss!

“It really is such a lovely day,” Aziraphale commented contentedly.

Crowley looked around. There were few people milling about, the sky only dared to contain the whitest of clouds, and the ducks were remarkably less chattery today.

“Guess,” he replied, noncommittal as always. Aziraphale glanced sideways at him knowingly but said nothing.

After a few second of comfortable silence in the sunshine, Aziraphale added wearily, “I suppose I ought to head back to the bookshop soon.” He peeked at Crowley with The Look.

Crowley knew The Look. He’d had it used against him hundreds, perhaps thousands of times over the years. It was the “I want to avoid this situation but I’d rather you get me out of it instead” Look. Drawn in eyebrows, subtle pout, wide blue eyes. Pathetic, really. Like a whining puppy. Completely absurd.

Ridiculous.

The demon let out a theatrical groan – internally, that is. Outward he maintained his Cool Guy swagger by leaning even further against the back of the bench. It shouldn’t have possible to do so, but the laws of psychics were merely a suggestion. “We could always swing by a café first,” he suggested. “That one on the corner you like updated their menu recently.”

The angel’s face lit up. “That sounds lovely, dear, let’s!”

Crowley smirked and stood, adjusting his lapels and sunglasses unaffectedly. Grinning mischievously down at the angel, he held out a hand as an opportunity to tease presented itself. Like a proper demon, he took it. “Shall we…dear?”

Aziraphale, who had eyed his hand suspiciously, gave a full-body jolt at the endearment. “Crowley!” he admonished with a withering glare. “Whatever was that for?”

Crowley grinned even wider somehow; one eyebrow was perched as he took in his flustered friend. “Hmm? Something wrong, _dear_?”

Aziraphale stood, disgruntled and glaring, pointedly refusing the hand extended to him. “That’s – you can’t – don’t call me that!”

“What, so only you can go around calling people ‘dear’?” Crowley stuffed the thwarted hand into a pocket as he cocked a hip.

Aziraphale lifted his nose in the air haughtily. “Yes.”

Crowley stifled a laugh. “So, you have a monopoly on the word, huh? Getting it copyrighted, patented? Will I be fined?”

“Stop being absurd, you serpent.” The angel folded his hands in front of him with the air of someone who had The Last Word. “Rightio. With that sorted, let’s carry on. I could do with a scone…”

Crowley followed after and let him have the victory for now, already scheming to see Aziraphale make that adorable, embarrassed expression again.

~

It was two days later, and Crowley had started a list.

He’d done extensive research, Googling and pulling up any number of sites with long lists of pet names, terms of endearment, all that jazz. Many were foreign; a number he recalled from history and knew they had gone out of style (and thanks to Someone no one used “Chuckaboo” anymore).

As the goal of this endeavor was basically to embarrass Aziraphale as much as possible (he’s a demon; he needs his fun), he wanted to choose only the worst nicknames he could find. But, since this is, of course, Aziraphale, he knew he had to eliminate any and all Victorian, Shakespearean, or really just any old terms in general. Because the angel would unironically like those.

So, modern things it was.

And, yes, he knew he was going overboard for a little prank, a touch of mischief. But Crowley was nothing if not thorough, the master of low-grade devilry, and Someone knows he needed something to do now that Hell wasn’t sending him any work.

And sure, okay, maybe he harbored a secret love for his friend, so this was probably a horrible idea that would backfire terribly, but…hindsight, and all that.

He dialed the angel’s number and leaned back, waiting the customary four rings for Aziraphale to hear the phone from deep with the Reading Zone wherein the world faded into secondary importance, get over to the phone, decide to actually answer the phone, then pick up the damn phone.

 _We all have our rituals_ , he supposed.

After the fourth ring, he heard the telltale click. _“Hello, Crowley,”_ the angel said warmly. He didn't have caller ID, of course, on that old rotary, but he always seemed to know when it was Crowley, anyway. Probably cheating somehow to avoid calls from customers. _“Good morning. I would’ve expected you’d still be asleep.”_

Crowley glanced at his clock. Seven. He’d been up all night – not looking up endearments, mind you. He’d gotten distracted by some Wikipedia articles on the history of cane sugar and wound up deep into an article on fruit flies that brought up a lot of Beelzebub-adjacent questions.

“Ah, yeah, er, didn’t sleep last night,” he replied truthfully. “Busy spreading dissent and such business.”

 _“Ah, of course.”_ He could hear the disbelieving, pursed lips. _“Proper demonic wiles, I expect?”_

“’Course, course,” Crowley replied with a purposeful, lazy drawl. “Listen, thought I’d see if you were up for a showing tonight? They’re doing _Much Ado.”_

_“Oh, yes, that sounds perfect. I know how you enjoy that one. What time?”_

“Six. I’ll pick you up.”

_“Lovely. I’ll see you then.”_

“Yeah. Later… _sweetheart_.” He hung up the phone before the angel could reply, grinning to himself like a madman.

Aziraphale called twice and Crowley refused to answer.

When he swung by in the Bentley eleven hours later, Aziraphale got into his seat with a plop and glared at Crowley very pointedly. “This had better not become a Thing, Anthony J. Crowley,” he chastised, the capitalization verbally emphasized.

Crowley whistled low. “Wow, using my full name? I’m not grounded, am I?” He cackled at Aziraphale’s affronted expression and burst into the street, leaving the angel too distracted by shouting about his driving speed to scold further.

~

It continued from there.

He burst into the bookshop in the middle of open hours to see three customers shuffling about, casting him awkward glances at his loud entrance. Seeing the audience and not the angel, he called out, “Hey, honey, I’m home!”

Two customers looked at each other with knowing, sly smiles, and turned back to the books. Aziraphale appeared from the backroom in a rush.

“Oh, Crowley?” he said, looking confused. “What was that?”

“Mmm, should’a known that’d go over your head,” Crowley commented with a roll of the eyes. “Nevermind, angel. What’d you say to a drink?” He gestured to the bottle that he had definitely not been holding before.

The customers suddenly realized they all had very important things to attend to and left in a rush. Crowley counted that as enough of a victory, not even having had to encourage them out himself.

~

Another evening, Crowley was sprawled on the couch in the backroom on his phone, waiting for Aziraphale to return with the promised cup of tea. The angel had refused alcohol that night, saying something about cutting back on the liquor to set a good example for the humans. Crowley had seen this endeavor attempted before and made no protests, knowing it never lasted more than seventeen days, that being Aziraphale’s record from sometime during the Arthurian era.

He’d insisted Crowley join in, too, and Crowley also agreed to that without bickering about it. No fun getting sloshed without equally drunk company, after all.

Aziraphale came up beside him and placed a cup of amber liquid on the end table.

“Here you are,” he said with a satisfied nod before settling into the armchair. “Nothing like a good cup of tea.”

Crowley glanced over, then reached out and took a sip. Perfect temperature, four sugars, just as he liked. “Perfect. Thanks, doll.”

Aziraphale spluttered, mid-drink. His eyebrows shot up before he collected himself. “Doll? Really? That can’t be one people actually use.”

Crowley thought about it, then shrugged. “Er. Kinda an old lady thing, I guess.”

“Well, let’s leave it to the elderly women, then, dear.”

~

After a dinner at the Ritz, they wound up back in the Bentley. “Back to my place for a nightcap?” Aziraphale offered, his alcohol abstinence long since abandoned, just as Crowley knew it would be. The demon was already driving to Soho before the angel spoke.

“Obviously. You think I’d say no to getting drunk with you, sugar?”

Aziraphale huffed a long-suffering sigh that sounded rather like resignation to a prison sentence. “Oh, Good Lord,” he muttered, and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a blasphemy. He couldn’t decide which was funnier.

~

“Sweetcakes? Pumpkin? Cupcake?”

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled. “Why are they all foods? I don’t want to be a food. I _eat_ food.”

"Maybe because you’re a snack.”

“…Is this one of those inter web jokes I’m supposed to get? The may-mays?”

"Nevermind, angel.”

~

“How’s your croissant, baby?”

“Call me that again and I will smite you without hesitation.”

“Alright, fair.”

~

He should’ve known he was digging his own grave from the start.

Said grave was dug and primed for him one particular afternoon, only a few weeks after the nickname shenanigans began.

“I’m heading out,” Crowley said, rising to stand from the sofa. He’d been there for a few hours, simply lounging around as had become quite usual. “Got to water my plants and, er, other things. Busy guy, me.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice, so deep in his book as he was. Crowley rolled his eyes fondly. “I said I’m heading out, love,” he repeated. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow for dinner?”

Aziraphale snapped his head up, looking furious. Crowley paused by the doorway at the expression, unsure when the last time was that he’d even seen Aziraphale properly angry. Before the Inquisition, at least.

“Crowley!” the angel exclaimed, bookmarking the page with a disgruntled thrust before settling it aside to fold his hands indignantly, glowering all the while.

“Um, what’s up?” Crowley pulled his sunglasses from the crook on his shirt and slid them over his nose.

“That’s…” Aziraphale shifted to a pained expression. “That’s too far, Crowley. You know I take that kind of thing very seriously.”

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. “Um. We go to dinner all the time, angel. What’s your deal? Why are you so upset all of a sudden?”

Aziraphale glared at him for a long moment. Crowley stared back, earnestly confused and letting it show by holding out his arms in a “what do you want from me” motion, more than a little tense himself at the sudden change in the tone of the room.

After some time, Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide and a hand fluttered to his mouth in surprise at some revelation. “It wasn’t on purpose, was it?”

“What are you on about?”

“The – what you said.”

Crowley groaned. “And what was it I said that was so – so…incriminating, huh?”

Aziraphale hesitated for a long moment. Crowley raised his eyebrows again, impatient. The angel swallowed and said softly, “you called me ‘love.’”

Crowley stopped breathing, stopped fidgeting, stopped thinking. _Fuck._ He did? “Ngk. Hryyngg. Ermmh,” he eloquently replied. “Nah.”

“You did!” Aziraphale stood up in a rush, grinning teasingly and – um, affectionately? No, that wasn’t it. The expression disappeared as quickly as it came, settling into apprehension and doubt as he teetered between his feet. “Did…did you mean it?”

Crowley’s brain finished recomputing and he blinked a few times in rapid succession. “FFrrmmggh. I…gah…don’t even remember saying it. But. Uh. Well. Ngk. Do you…er, _want me_ to, uh, mean it?”

Aziraphale looked back at him, unreadable. After a beat, he said, “I want to know if you would mean it. If you said it purposefully.”

Crowley took a sudden fortifying breath, screwing his eyes shut. They were really doing this, huh? Guess it was his fault, after all. His stupid idea that caused all this. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale hadn’t moved and looked both expectant and patient.

Crowley took another breath. Removed the sunglasses. Made eye contact, ignoring Aziraphale’s gentle countenance. “…I’ve always meant it, love,” he whispered, barely more than a breath of syllables.

Aziraphale’s face burst into sunlight, he beamed so wide. He may have actually been glowing; Crowley was a biased witness so he couldn’t say for certain. “Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmured, stepping forward. He placed his hands on Crowley’s face, which he could tell were absolutely burning.

He spluttered a moment, seeking words before giving up on the pointless endeavor. _Hands. On. Face. My. What._

“I feel the same, of course,” Aziraphale said like it really was _of course_ , which, no, it wasn’t, but that wasn’t important right now because _what_? “I was hoping you’d say something after all that happened, but I wasn’t sure…”

Crowley spluttered some more, for good measure. “Wha- angel, me _openly flirting_ with you doesn’t count as ‘saying something’ in your book?” he asked, incredulous.

“In my defense, I thought you were teasing me,” Aziraphale replied calmly, a hand shifting to toy with the hair at Crowley’s nape, and wasn’t _that_ a sensation he was _not prepared for._

“I was!” Crowley felt slighted and struggled to focus on anything but the angel’s hands, literally fucking anything else. “Dastardly plan on my part. Took a lot of research.” The angel’s hands were still on his damn face and _damn neck._

“Yes, yes, very evil and all that.” Aziraphale’s face softened from its smirk into a gentle smile. “I do think I could get used to it, though.”

Crowley blinked. “Used to…?”

Aziraphale leaned in closer. “You, calling me ‘love.’”

He pecked Crowley chastely on the lips, leaning back radiant and peaceful like he hadn’t just completely shattered and upended and repainted Crowley’s entire understanding of the universe. If God had walked in the room, he would not have noticed.

Aziraphale waited patiently for his demon to go through all the stages of My Best Friend Loves Me Back What The Actual Living Fuck before finally settling on something between awe and endless joy, finally remembering to smile as he blinked rapidly. “You…I…we…hhrrnngg.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Shut it. Words are difficult right now, love.” His eyes widened when he realized he’d said it again, but Aziraphale left him no time to feel self-conscious by lighting up like the damn sun.

“Guess you’re already quite used to it, darling.” Aziraphale smirked again because he was a bastard to his core. “Oh, and, dear?”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m serious. If you call me ‘baby’ I will kick you out.”

Crowley laughed, scandalized and pleased all at once. He loved him so goddamned much, it ached in the best way. “I haven’t even moved in yet, angel!”

 _“Yet_. Exactly.”

“GGrrnhhk! You – gnnff. Bastard!”

“I’ll take that as the compliment it is.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. His own words were getting him _nowhere_. “Peace, I will stop your mouth,” he declared, knowing that the angel knew the following stage direction.

It wasn’t _Hamlet_ , thank Someone, but a little Shakespeare worked wonders.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: I've only just realized a month later how funny it is that I make fun of the endearment "doll" as being an old lady thing when, not only is that part of my username, but I call people doll sometimes in real life. Oh no. I am an old lady now


End file.
